ABOUT
THE AUTHOR
Mason Cole is an Oklahoma author, 17 years of age. He attends the Oklahoma School of Science and Mathematics in Oklahoma City. Mason's favorite authors are Ayn Rand, William Shakespeare, Homer, and Orson Scott Card. His dream is to recieve a Ph.D. in History and then teach, writing novels and short stories on the side. [October 2000]
AUTHOR'S OTHER TITLES (10) Beyond The Fence (Short Stories) When a mysterious stranger wanders into a small Nebraska town, its citizens are forced to make a choice between the Eden they live in and the Eden that is possible. [6,840 words] Grandfather (Poetry) A poem about my grandfather and his battles with ahorrible illness. [269 words] Teaching Mindy (Short Stories) A New York private investigator and his assistant are handed the case of a lifetime. But will it turn out to be a career-making mystery, or will the killer get away with the perfect crime? [11,186 words] The Box (Short Stories) When two boys from the future cross wits with a man out of time, the world's future lies within...THE BOX. [5,497 words] The Form Of Poetry (Poetry) Peotry is an undefinable thing in technical terms. This piece is meant to help describe just a few of the purposes of poetry. [318 words] The Greatest Of All (Poetry) A work of triumph about a personal hero of mine. [381 words] The Stars (Poetry) A short philosophical piece. [219 words] To My Blooming Rose (Poetry) A short work of dedication to a very special someone. [113 words] War Chess (Poetry) An allegorical look at the Civil War, espcially Lee and Grant. [548 words] 'twas The Night Before X-Mas 2k (Poetry) The real meaning of Christmas condensed into poetry form. [371 words]
Thoughts From A Prison Camp Mason Cole
The light of the moon is so flick’ring and free, Working all day for a cause that I hate, My bunkmates I love they are my closest friends, Oh! cruelest of fates! When you live by your brawn, I’m so weak and tired; my bruises are sore, The end of an era is fast drawing nigh, Religion does matter, at least to the Jews, I must keep my presence of mind and my will,
Free from barbed wire’s where I wish to be The floods of the evil will never abate, Our bonds have no loose threads and no mortal ends, And the smartest, if sick, Hitler won’t let go on, My young aching body can’t take any more, To freedom and liberty, say your goodbye, My heart freely leaps at each piece of glad news, The fight for my life will be battled uphill,
Before this I only had called one place home, And now I must help both to feed and to clothe, We stay tied together, for better or worse, A place where a thought is forbidden by law, For time without measure I work with a will, The horror of horrors has triumphed at last, Though false it may be, it still gives me the chance, Most base of emotions, most vile of crimes,
This work camp could force me to a catacomb, The Nazi regime that I always will loathe, Helping the downcast to see through the curse, And the unholy SS will shove in its maw, Hoping my quota exactly to fill, Our future is bleak, as the hope of our past, To dress up my wounds and continue the dance, Combine to attack in the hardest of times,
And not to the stars where I so wish to stay, Spinning the looms countless hour on hour, For poorer or poorest, through thick or through thin, Anything they think deserves not to live, The pressure most likely drives me to my grave, Fading away, leaves a message so clear, My faith lies unwav’ring in Creation’s plan, I’ll need all my strength to face what lies ahead,
Sailing with sunlight, and dancing my way, Feeding my life to those hungry for power, We always are willing to let others in, Or can’t persuade itself to selflessly give, With zombie-like mind, now I labor and slave, A phrase to remember through each day and year, God knew what would happen before time began, But if I survive past the reign of the dead,
To live with the angels that no one can see, How this rapes my existence, I can’t contemplate, And watch for the signs that we hope the Lord sends, All that the Aryans need to be strong, Desp’rately trying not to hit the floor, “The truth of existence is always to try,” So to give up all hope is what I must refuse, The scars on my heart will be showing there still.
[I would like to dedicate this poem to a remarkable woman, Gerda Klein. She survived the worst the Nazi regime had to offer, and lived to tell her story. This poem is based loosely on her autobiography “All But My Life.” My theory was that after a long while in incarceration, a person’s thought tracks will merge into one jumbled, confusing mass. If this poem seems to make no sense, go back and read the first line of each stanza in sequence, then the second lines in sequence, and so on. They form eight separate mini-poems contained within the larger poem.]
READER'S REVIEWS (4) DISCLAIMER: STORYMANIA DOES NOT PROVIDE AND IS NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR REVIEWS. ALL REVIEWS ARE PROVIDED BY NON-ASSOCIATED VISITORS, REGARDLESS OF THE WAY THEY CALL THEMSELVES.
"This is absolutely great - I love, especially the form which I've never seen before. It's clever, meaningful, wonderfully expressed. I really admire this poem - congratulations to the author on a brilliant piece." -- Kerry L. Schofield , Midlands, England.
"This seemed very deep and from your heart. What poetry is really supposed to be...it's not always rhymes that are important..." -- Ashley.
"Are you sure you're only 17? Deep, emotional, and yet written with brains, not just the heart. Good work!" -- Ivana Milakovic.
"you should read 'night' by Elie Weisel. I've got to think on this more." -- olef ransom saulles.
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